


Soon to Be Paradise

by JennaCupcakes



Series: We Can All Still Burn Our Fingers [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1848, AU, Gen, M/M, another revolution another country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Feuilly knock over a Christmas tree while Grantaire tries to get Enjolras' attention with poetry. It's a great New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soon to Be Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read. Sorry.

_New Year’s Eve 1847/1848_

“I have seen it, Enjolras!”

They were standing on a square in the middle of Berlin, gas lamps illuminating the large pine tree in the middle of the square with its snowy branches and scarce decoration. Feuilly’s cheeks were reddened, and his nose was gleaming red as well, but even more so his eyes. “The farmers, they’re hungry and fed up, and the church keeps pressing for more money in the south. Not long now.”

Bahorel, who had taken a break from his routine of inspiring brawls in the workers’ taverns to celebrate New Year’s Eve with his friends, slapped Feuilly on the back. “I see great deeds ahead. There’s no weapon in Prussia’s arsenal that can match a true uprising of the people.”

A little more than sixty years from now, boys like him would be dying on muddy fields in France and Russia. Not even six months from now, Bahorel himself would be put to the test not very far from here.

“Do you think the others will follow suit, Enjolras?”

Jehan was standing a little aside with a drink in his hand Courfeyrac had given him. He seemed pensive, that night, aware of something not yet tangible that was about to come. “Will an uprising here inspire the other states? And will they really unite?

A lesser man would have called that doubt, but Enjolras knew both the people and the poet. “There is much to be overcome, but more to gain if we can act as one nation. The others share our discontentment and our beliefs. The only thing keeping us apart now are the princes.”

“What is this nation,” Jehan sighed, glancing upwards at the starry sky. “We talk about it, but I have never seen her. She must be very timid to hide her face from us like this.”

“We will lead her to the light,” promised Enjolras, who had spent many a day explaining to passer-bys at their preferred tavern the history of Germania, a nation that had never thought of itself as such until now.

A Holy Roman Empire, maybe.

Subject to Napoleon’s idiocy.

Never a nation.

Never free.

He sighed, maybe in deep thought, or maybe in regret. “You will see, Jehan.”

—Ψ—

They ended up in their regular tavern not far from the square, their hands and feet cold.

“At least Enjolras is still burning with the fire of revolution,” Jehan joked as they opened the door and hurried inside, shaking the snow off their boots and taking off their coats. Feuilly and Bahorel had stayed behind, but they had picked up Courfeyrac and Bossuet on their way to the tavern, and as they entered, they spotted another familiar face.

Nobody knew how he did it, but somehow Grantaire always managed to find the tavern the friends would end up for the night. That, or maybe it was just really hard to find decent, reasonably priced food elsewhere.

It was lively inside, but Grantaire made himself heard within seconds of the opening of the door.

“How do you fair, dear friends? I wish you all a happy new year, and may the aristocracy have mercy on us!”

Bossuet looked concerned, a frown etched on his forehead. “If Enjolras doesn’t kill him, some Prussian officer will,” he muttered to Courfeyrac, who patted his friends shoulder and then hurried over to Grantaire to make him shut up and sit down. Enjolras really did look slightly murderous.

“Have you been here the entire evening?” Courfeyrac asked while the others headed to the bar to find some food and drinks. It was not yet midnight – Grantaire’s happy-new-year had been preliminary – but there was a half-empty bottle of wine on the table, and Courfeyrac had a feeling it wasn’t Grantaire’s first.

Well, it wasn’t a feeling.

More like years of experience with his notorious friend.

“I did not have a better thing to do,” Grantaire said, eyeing his bottle critically, “So here I am.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “I would have thought you with a woman. You haven’t been around a lot lately.”

Grantaire’s glance over to the bar was barely noticeable. “You would not believe me if I said I have been working on the revolution, would you?”

Courfeyrac shook his head, and Grantaire smiled ruefully. “Then I won’t say it. Do you want something to drink?”

He offered his bottle to Courfeyrac who politely declined. “I asked Jehan to buy me something. I know how much you cherish your wine.”

Grantaire always laughed, that was the only thing they properly knew about him besides his drinking habit and his luck with picking taverns. He raised his bottle to his friends joining them at their table. “To a new year full of old sorrows!”

Jehan seemed intrigued by the poetic strand his friend discovered when mildly intoxicated. Enjolras… not so much.

“You do know it would be less sorrowful if you took action, Grantaire.”

He sat down opposite of the drunk student and put down his plate. They had not spoken since their meeting in December – rumour had it Grantaire had spent time in Strasbourg for two weeks, or maybe in Zurich, and Enjolras had been busy plotting a revolution Combeferre was still trying to slow down.

This night, though, felt like a game changer.

“A man with a good conscience doesn’t walk so fast,” Grantaire replied with a smug grin, “All in due time, brave leader.”

Courfeyrac shook his head at Grantaire’s words. “I thought we were here to celebrate the new year, not to discuss politics.”

“Everything Enjolras touches will turn into politics sooner or later. He is king Midas when it comes to that.”

Grantaire took a sip from his bottle. Enjolras seemed to have decided to ignore him. “You are right, Courfeyrac. We came here to celebrate. This is the year we will claim our freedom from the princes and monarchs of Germany.”

Grantaire leaned over to Jehan and whispered, “See?”

Jehan chuckled quietly, and failed to keep a straight face when Enjolras sent them a stern glance. The only thing saving them was the opening door, the gust of cold wind, and Combeferre entering the tavern together with Joly. They joined their friends at their table, carrying over two additional chairs to sit down.

“We met Feuilly and Bahorel on the way here,” Combeferre explained, “They were so friendly to tell us where you went.”

Joly smiled cheerily. “You haven’t begun without us, have you?”

“We wouldn’t dare,” replied Bossuet and pushed his bottle of dark beer into Joly’s hand, “Here, have a drink and warm up again.”

On the other end of the table, Jehan had pulled out a book of poetry to read; only Grantaire seemed to have other things in mind. Courfeyrac observed his sideway glances for some time before the man decided to speak up, though.

“What are you reading, Jehan?”

Jehan closed the book with a blush and replied facing Grantaire, “It’s a collection of poems. I do not think you would be interested in Schiller, though.”

Grantaire barked out a laugh. “Indeed not. I don’t have much love for his romanticist notions.”

He put a hand over his heart. “It really is all the same. The beauty of nature is superior to the beauty of man, thus one must strive to mimic nature. But I think nature is an ugly thing, very much like myself. This is because I do not pretend to be better like you all do.”

He raised his bottle and drank again, and Enjolras took that as his cue to throw in an angry remark. “You wouldn’t know a think about the poets you’re talking about, much less their philosophy. Schiller was intrigued by the ideals of the French revolution, he upheld the ideals of liberty, equality...”

“That was until the revolution ate her own children.”

Jehan looked like he wanted to say something, but Combeferre cut in before things could get out of hand. “Enjolras, I have news from Frankfurt and Munich.”

He pulled some letters from the pocket of his coat, and Enjolras was immediately distracted. Grantaire was left to drink, until he noticed Jehan staring at him. He put down his bottle and raised his eyebrows. “Is there something on my face, poet?”

Jehan shook his head, looking stunned. “No, just...” He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s a free country. Well, not yet.”

—Ψ—

“So,” Bahorel said lazily.

Feuilly eyed him from the side, the dark making it easier to hide the ghost of a smile on his features. His pale face looked almost supernaturally while in the scarce light.

They both had taken notice of the three guardsmen on the far end of the square.

“Any plans for tonight, freckles?”

The glint in Bahorel’s eyes betrayed his playful side, everything else just spoke of danger and strength. If there was one thing he loved, it was pushing Feuilly.

The dark-haired man cast a sideway glance at the soldiers, then crossed his arms. “Would I be here with you if I had other plans?”

Bahorel’s laugh definitely alerted the guardsmen of their presence. Feuilly could feel their stares. He took a step towards Bahorel, and Bahorel took a step towards him, refusing to back down from a challenge. “Watch it, wise guy,” Bahorel whispered.

The guardsmen started walking towards them – three grown men, wrapped in layers of dark cotton and silk and outdated traditionalism topped with a helmet with a pointy tip. Their helmets bobbed comically as they picked up speed, and Bahorel could barely stifle a laugh at the sight.

Feuilly spared him a reprimanding glance. “Watch it yourself,” he hissed under his breath, then presented his best smile as the officers reached them.

“Good evening, Sirs. Can we help you?”

The frontman was a grey-haired soldier in his fifties, impressive moustache dominating his features, but almost outmatched by his hairy eyebrows.

He had a hand on his sword.

“What are you two up to?” he asked, giving them both a discarding once-over. “I do assume you have studying to do, boys your age? You shouldn’t be out so late.”

Next to Feuilly, Bahorel had to bite his lip not to laugh. Feuilly really wanted to kick his shin.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, Sir. We were just on our way to meet some friends.”

Bahorel shifted his weight from one foot to another and nodded. “What he said, Sir. It’s not like we’d plan to overthrow the monarchy while all our friends are out getting drunk.”

Feuilly really wanted to punch him, but he also really wanted to win this round. In front of them, the officer frowned, and his grip on the sword tightened. “You were saying?”

Bahorel actually went so far as to punch the officer in the shoulder – and Feuilly knew from experience that even his friendly punches could hurt like fuck. Big guys just had no idea how strong they really were. Or maybe Bahorel knew, and he didn’t care.

“I was joking.” The officer relaxed, and Bahorel grinned when he added, “We don’t start planning until the weather is better. March, maybe.”

“And that’s enough for tonight.”

Feuilly put an arm around his friend’s shoulder to keep him down, grabbing his neck and holding him in place. “I’m sorry, Sir, my friend had too much to drink. I’ll escort him to his apartment now. Thank you for your consideration.”

The officer looked suspicious, but Feuilly could pull off the best smiles when he wanted to, and he steered Bahorel away from them. The three guardsmen stayed put until the students had passed the Christmas tree, then their officer shrugged and turned, leading them away again.

Bahorel had been cursing the entire time.

“You absolute bastard, that could have been magnificent and you had to go and fucking ruin it. Did you see how _shocked_ they were?”

Feuilly let go of his neck, but not before pushing down harder than necessary, and Bahorel started cursing again. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“And you are a fucking moron. You can’t just march up to a Prussian officer and say _hey, Sir, how’s it going, terrible weather for a revolution_. That is not how this works.”

Bahorel took a step towards him, and Feuilly refused to yield. “I’ll do what I fucking want, and if you want no fucking part in it, get out.”

He had Feuilly shoved to the ground within a heartbeat, but Feuilly kicked at his legs and pulled them away from under him so that he was landing on his stomach with a breathless _uff_. He still managed to elbow Feuilly, landing a blow to the other’s ribs.

Feuilly cursed and twisted Bahorel’s arm on his back, but Bahorel managed to snake free and push Feuilly back on the ground again, who was kicking and cursing about how his only coat was getting wet in the snow.

Really, though, there wasn’t much to their meetings except for a lot of immature taking of risks and flying fists.

Feuilly sat back up again with another curse and made sure that Bahorel’s coat got equally wet by pushing him down again, but Bahorel just held on to him and pulled, and then they were both rolling over on the ground until they hit something solid and both let go with a pained groan.

“Holy fucking shit what was tha--”

Bahorel was cut short when they both heard a creaking and rustling and turned just in time to see the Christmas tree sway and lean to the side dangerously.

“Oh shit.”

Feuilly was the first one on his feet, and he pulled Bahorel up and dragged him away while the tree, slowly and gracefully, tilted to the side, slowly at first, and then fell down with a dull thump that had the two boys flinching.

“Well fuck.”

Bahorel crosses his arms, and Feuilly wiped the snow off his face. “Now what are we going to do about that?”

Bahorel shrugged. “Maybe we could--”

He was cut short for the second time that night when the sound of hooves on the pavement became heard in the distance. He looked over to Feuilly, and the understanding passed between them before Bahorel even voiced it aloud. “We run.”

So they did.

—Ψ—

There was a lot of beer involved, and even though the food was served liberally, they all were much more elated than usual. Well, Enjolras and Combeferre had retreated into their own private bubble of revolution, while Courfeyrac was pressing Joly to find out more about a woman the other man had been talking about.

“But is she beautiful?”

Joly’s laugh was timid, and his cheeks were a deep shade of red. Bossuet patted his back. “She is, and Joly is right for not introducing her to you. You would most likely try to pursue her yourself.”

He then proceeded to wink at Joly and offer his friend another beer, one that Joly declined with a tired shake of his head. “I’ve had far too much of this.”

The beer was dark and bitter and strong, and it had already made his head and limbs heavy. Next to him, Grantaire laughed. “You can never have too much beer, Joly. It even has medical qualities. For example, it can make you get through lent quite easily, for it is almost as nourishing as bread.”

“I do not think this qualifies as nourishment, Grantaire.”

Joly laughed. Grantaire moved back to drinking in silence, just as the door opened and Feuilly and Bahorel stumbled through.

“I think they lost us,” Feuilly panted, “though they wouldn’t even have followed us this far had you been able to keep your voice down.”

“It wasn’t my fault I tripped. You _pushed_ me, understand?”

Bahorel growled while they joined their friends at the table. Feuilly grabbed to chairs and handed one to Bahorel. “I am terribly sorry that you cannot even stay on your feet for two seconds.”

“What happened?” Jehan asked with a frown.

Bahorel and Feuilly started grinning simultaneously, both with the utter elation of habitual troublemakers.

“We met some Prussian officers...” Bahorel explained smugly, and Feuilly added, “And then we knocked over the giant tree on Wilhelm’s square.”

“Serves them right,” muttered Bahorel, “They’re wasting our money on bloody decoration while we’re all starving.”

“And then?” Courfeyrac asked with an expression of mild horror on his face.

“The officers got back,” Feuilly sighed, “And we ran.”

Grantaire cheered, and the others at least laughed or grinned at their friends’ notorious nuisances. It was common knowledge that both of them liked the other to get in trouble, and most of the time ended up getting in trouble together.

Enjolras sighed. Combeferre only looked slightly concerned. “Are you sure they didn’t follow you?”

Feuilly nodded exasperatedly. “They lost us at the City Palace. There were people leaving the church.”

Combeferre nodded, and Feuilly leaned forward. “They can feel it, though. All the anger, the resentments, the discontentment of the people... They know that there are dangerous times ahead.”

“Bastard stopped us for nothing,” Bahorel complained silently, “He was looking for trouble more than we were.”

Combeferre turned to Enjolras. “I told you we need to act more cautiously. The king will not hesitate to use his army should he feel threatened. If they’re feeling the need to act now...”

He trailed off, leaving the rest of his sentence to Enjolras’ imagination. They knew how wrong this could go – they all knew, but most of the time they did not dwell on it. The time seemed ready. It was a matter of months now.

Jehan had pulled out a poetry book and was writing while trying to hide it from the curious eyes of Grantaire and his mocking words – really, though, Grantaire had been looking for nothing but trouble the entire evening, and now was no exception.

“Are you writing about romance, little poet?” He smiled as Jehan blushed and sent him an angry glare, then raised his hands defensively. “I did not mean to aggravate you. Unlike other people present, I do very much have a sense for poetry.”

Jehan laughed at that, but Grantaire shushed him. “Take Enjolras, for example,” he said, loud enough so that everyone at the table had to take notice. “The only poetry he reads are the angry words of revolution, and it has made him grim and stern. A poet would struggle to find words to soften a heart so cold and hard.”

He tapped his fingers on the table, then raised his voice again triumphantly. “Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people’s body,” he recited, “Every swelling of veins, each tensing of the muscles, every twitch of the sinews must be seen through it.”

Jehan looked at him excitedly, and then added, “The body may be beautiful or hideous, she has every right to be the way it is, and we have no right to tailor a skirt that does not fit her.”

Grantaire applauded again. “That, my friend, was beautiful. Exactly the kind of poetry Enjolras needs. Would you not agree, Enjolras?”

The blonde rolled his eyes at him. “I can appreciate poetry. Yours is a poor attempt, though.”

Grantaire chuckled. “If you say so.”

He leaned back in his seat and reached for his bottle, but before he could get there Jehan grabbed his arm to get his attention. “You were not making this up. You were quoting. That was why I knew what to say.”

The twitching of Grantaire’s mouth did not quite morph into a smile. “Well, I can understand why our idealistic leader would not appreciate Büchner of all people.”

“But he was not a mere cynic,” Jehan replied, “You would know that, had you been reading about him. He talked about revolution just as much as he ridiculed the aristocracy.”

Grantaire waved it off. “I never said I was not interested in your little revolution. Let’s speak of it no more.”

Jehan let it rest, and turned to Courfeyrac who had been looming over a pamphlet with Feuilly. “Since when are we publishing?” he asked curiously. The last time somebody had suggested pamphlets everyone had agreed it was too risky, given that people were still persecuted for openly not agreeing with the government.

“We are not,” Courfeyrac said, “Feuilly is just sketching something because I asked him to.”

Jehan leaned over the table, intrigued by the prospect of seeing one of Feuilly’s sketches. It was, however, little better than a pamphlet.

“You cannot draw things like that!” he remarked, horrified, and leaned back. It had been a caricature of King Wilhelm, with the black of his Prussian uniform swirling around him like dark wings that overshadowed a map of Germany under him.

“I certainly can,” Feuilly grinned, “Just as long as I make sure I have a fire going at home that I can feed it to. Soon, I won’t even have to do that.”

Courfeyrac grinned, leaning on the table and revelling in the hum of conversation around them, the feeling of friendship between them and the utter bliss of too much food and quite a lot of beer. “I do believe that this is paradise, my friends. I could not imagine a better time to be with you.”

From the other end of the table, Enjolras scowled. “Paradise, Courfeyrac,” he said, “is yet to come.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the lack of plot. Further installments will contain more history and less Christmas trees. 
> 
> Here are the quotes I used:  
> “A man with a good conscience doesn’t walk so fast.” (Büchner, Woyzeck)  
> “Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.” (Büchner, Dantons Tod)  
> “Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people’s body. Every swelling of veins, each tensing of the muscles, every twitch of the sinews must be seen through it. The body may be beautiful or hideous, she has every right to be the way it is, and we have no right to tailor a skirt that does not fit her.” (Büchner, Dantons Tod)


End file.
